


Roadtrip

by Moit



Series: The Domestication of Stiles and Derek [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fingering, Angst, Blow Jobs, First Time, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-02-09 03:41:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1967610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moit/pseuds/Moit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story takes place in the Domestication universe before Summer Storm and Domestication, but you don't necessarily have to read either of those to read this. </p><p>Stiles goes to a music festival for the weekend with Scott and Isaac, but when Derek doesn't hear from him, he gets worried. </p><p>Mostly porn and angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If I've missed any tags, please let me know. It's been so long since we wrote this fic.

Derek dips his head down, lower and lower, breath concentrated in his flared nostrils. He can feel the fleshy back of his throat twitch and threaten reflex; he swallows to trick it and the tip of Stiles' cock bumps against the very back, slick and wet. His nose is buried in the soft thick thatch of Stiles' chestnut-colored pubic hair, and he's struggling to deep throat him: Stiles is a little over six feet tall, a healthy size for a young man, and he's hung to match.  
  
With each hand on a knee he spreads his legs open, crouched at a kneel at the boy's bedside. Stiles' hips jump on his bedspread, and Derek pins him, craning his neck.  
  
Beside him, Stiles' things are haphazardly piled into a duffel bag, and he can convince himself on some plane of fantasy that the teen is going to come home with him after this, breeze through the front door of his loft and up his stairs, where he'll fall into bed and kick those fucking jeans off, already wet and ready --   
  
He moans around Stiles' cock, twisting his fingers around the base.   
  
The reality is less enticing: Stiles is off to spend the weekend with Scott and Isaac at a music festival. He's packed sunscreen and t-shirts and his favorite water bottle, and Derek hates to think he'll be in a crush of so many sweating bodies, all undulating against him to the beat.   
  
Derek momentarily pulls off, blowing a breath of cool air over Stiles' dripping sex.  
  
"Still could blow them off," he observes, taking just the head between his lips again, regarding Stiles with upward gazing grey-hazel eyes.

 

 

With a choked sound halfway between a sob and a moan, Stiles fists Derek's hair with both hands, attempting to push the older man back down on his cock.   
  
"Dude, we've been looking forward to this thing for _months_. And Everclear is going to be there. Just . . . blow _me_  and then I promise I'll give you such good head you won't even miss me this weekend." Or at all. It's not like Derek misses him, anyway.   
  
They've been sleeping together for a few months--well, "sleeping together" is a loose phrase. There was that one time they tried to have sex, but it ended so badly (read: embarrassingly) that they haven't tried again. That's not to say that Derek hasn't _asked_ (and coerced) but Stiles is just too afraid. He's already been through two heats (with suppressants) but he just doesn't feel _ready_ to try Real Sex again. Blowjobs feel much better, anyway.   
  
"Come on, dude," he says, trying to push his cock back into Derek's mouth. If it wasn't for the hand holding his hip, he would be halfway down the werewolf's mouth by now.   
  
"You can even finger me, if you want." His eyes stray to the duffel he has packed already. Scott and Isaac will be here soon, and if they don't hurry this up, Stiles won't have time to get off, let alone time to blow Derek. 

 

 

That their first attempt at sex failed miserably doesn't deter Derek. First times tend to be that way, either short and sweet or short and -- well. He hadn't enjoyed being unceremoniously thrown off Stiles, of course, but he was willing to make a sincere effort at another round.  
  
Which would be the perfect project for a weekend alone together, without the distraction of Stiles' asshole friends.  
  
He growls low in his throat as he sucks Stiles' cock back down to the base, rearing up on his knees to bob his head aggressively, sucking sharply, edging his young lover at the borderlands between pleasure and pain.  
  
Fingering him will just have to do.   
  
As he sucks him he focuses on generating as much wetness as possible, layering Stiles' cock with saliva as he dips a finger in beside it, swirling it in the slickness. When he pulls it out he trails it down, beneath his soft sac, teasing tentatively against the tight pucker of his hole.

 

 

Stiles yelps in surprise as Derek gets more aggressive. His hands lose their hold on the werewolf's hair and he settles for twisting them in his comforter. He's not going to last very long--not that he ever does--he is a teenager, after all.  
  
As excited as Stiles is for this weekend, he would certainly enjoy spending with with Derek, if only the man returned his affections. He knows this is just sex for Derek, and reminds himself of that fact on a daily basis. If and when this thing ends, he's determined not to get his heart broken.  
  
Almost as soon as Derek gets a finger inside him, Stiles comes undone. He cries out harshly, mumbling nonsense as he cums down Derek's throat.  
  
"I'm cumming, I'm cumming! Oh my God--" he has to cut himself off from saying Derek's name. That would be too close to intimacy, which is not what they're cultivating here.

 

 

Every time they're together like this Derek thinks he could easily make a thing of it. Maybe not a permanent thing -- Stiles is still so young, so inexperienced, it would be unfair to pressure him into something with such daunting longevity -- but a _thing_ more than this. As he swallows thickly around the pulsing head of Stiles' cock and shudders at the warm slide of his cum as it proceeds down his throat, he thinks he could come home to this.  
  
Derek pulls off red-mouthed and panting, running his wrist over his lips to dull their shine. At one he feels distinctly empty, separated from Stiles, and slipping his finger out of him is even harder.   
  
He pulls himself up onto the teen's bed, pulling his shirt off over his head as he does.   
  
"Your turn," he declares, opening his arms for Stiles. He's been able to convince the kid he just requires a few long moments of requisite kissing before blowjobs because it's the only foreplay that really gets him going, which is in part true: Derek _loves_ the sensation of Stiles' lips on his. But then again that has more to do with the owner of the mouth than the lips themselves, something Derek isn't sure how to put into words.

 

 

It takes all of Stiles' willpower to not _actually_ begin to salivate when Derek takes off his shirt. He doesn't really have to hide his reaction, though. Derek knows Stiles finds him hot or else they wouldn't trade blowjobs so often. What he doesn't know is how much Stiles looks forward to this--getting to see Derek, not just his body, but him, unguarded. He can't get aroused enough for Stiles to blow him unless they make out for a while, and Stiles finds it so incredibly endearing, but he can't let Derek know how _cute_ he finds that.   
  
Instead, Stiles scrambles up and over Derek's body like an eager puppy, couching his sigh of pleasure in a moan of arousal as he settles himself chest-to-chest against the Alpha. If the offer was on the table--which, it's not because Derek doesn't want the responsibility of a relationship, let alone an omega of his own--Stiles would take Derek for his own in a heartbeat. But it doesn't matter because he is totally, 100% cool with the way things are. They aren't exclusive, and Derek is probably fucking other omegas, so it's okay. He's never led Stiles to believe that he was the only one on Derek's dance card, so it doesn't hurt quite as much when Derek leaves at night.   
  
Licking his lips, Stiles closes his eyes and leans in. Derek's kisses are always so soft, so unlike his usual demeanor. If Stiles had to judge the Alpha based on his kisses alone, he would think him a sensitive, quiet, loving person. Knowing what he knows, one out of three isn't bad, but it doesn't keep him warm at night.   
  
Their lips press together, and Stiles has to hold back the purr of pleasure that bubbles in his chest. His hands find Derek's cheeks beneath the stubble of a beard, and Stiles allows himself to lose himself in the kiss, in the fantasy that, at least for now, Derek is his. 

 

 

In the wild wolves don't make sound during sex; it's a vulnerable venture, and alerting enemies would only endanger the coupling. Derek is more or less the same, restricting his sexual noises to the necessary ( _could you -- move -- yeah._ ) and the courteous ( _gonna cum._ ) It's something he's prided himself on for sometime: he could have sex in an echoing parking garage stairwell and not alert those happily getting into their cars.  
  
But Stiles _changes_ things. It's practically his specialty. And when Stiles slides atop him the smooth glide of that perfect, fucking impeccable, totally flawless caramel colored skin on his has him _groaning_ low in his throat.   
  
One hand comes up to cradle the back of Stiles' head, threading through the short soft strands, stroking down the curve of his neck. The other skims down Stiles' spine, halting at his ass to cup one cheek, rolling the boy's hips against his as Derek works his tongue into his mouth.   
  
Emotion wells. There's something he wants to say -- but can't. Derek breaks for breath between kisses to murmur: "You have -- an _amazing_ body, Stiles," hissing or lisping a little on the final, drawn-out s.

 

 

Derek's lisp--that he hides well enough--is one of those things Stiles finds so adorably endearing about the Alpha, but he would never tell him. To bring attention to something Derek clearly tries so hard to mask would only break down the illusion that Derek gives just a little bit more of himself to Stiles than everyone else. It adds to the illusion that Derek is his.  
  
"You're not too bad yourself," he says, because it's so much easier than I love you. He waits, naked and excited, though satisfied, in Derek's lap for the next move. Scott will be here any minute, but Stiles is loathe for this moment to end.  
  
When staring into Derek's beautiful bluegreygreen eyes yields no answer, Stiles leans forward and presses a kiss to his bare shoulder. Every inch of Derek's bronze skin is perfection, and Stiles would worship him if Derek just said the word.  
  
"You ready for my mouth, yet?"

 

 

Kate had liked him standing. She liked to feel his knees get weak, wanted him to pull her hair.   
  
And she hadn't been able to bear even the slightest suggestion of intimacy, not with the revulsion she felt under her arousal.   
  
Jennifer, far more interested in women than she let on, and far less in men, had demurred from doing it almost categorically. In between there had been a few others, mostly in tight squeezes and anonymous exchanges, and over time Derek had come to the conclusion that he preferred to receive oral sex laying down.  
  
And so he relaxes against Stiles' mattress flat on his back, lacing his fingers behind his head. They won't stay there. By the end he'll be stroking his hair and cheeks and reaching between them to touch Stiles' lips, because he's tactile and because Stiles, clumsy mostly-virgin though he is, gives the best head he's ever had.   
  
He undoes his jeans and slides them down his hips, easily shifting Stiles' weight to kick them off the rest of the way. Naked underneath him he reaches up for one more kiss before pressing his shoulder gently down, and he wonders vaguely with a faint note of anticipation if Stiles knows he's giving him his belly like this, and what it means.

 

 

Eager, Stiles allows Derek to nudge him down until he's at eye-level with the Alpha's cock. It's a nice cock, not that Stiles has much to compare it to, but it's decently-sized, well-proportioned and though he can't choke it to the back of his throat, Derek doesn't seem to mind his amateur fumblings. Derek's lack of criticism about Stiles' technique, despite his minimal (read: zero) experience, is part of what has allowed them to continue this fuck buddy thing they have going.  
  
At first, Stiles licks around the head, using his tongue the way he might use the flat of his hand. It's easier with a man, because Stiles has a dick of his own, so if nothing else, he knows what he likes. He can't imagine doing this to a female Alpha, certainly not one as demanding as Lydia . . .  
  
He shakes thoughts of his old crush out of his head and focuses on the task--err, member--in front of him. He knows it takes Derek a while to get there, at least according to what he's said. For all Stiles knows, Derek was just trying to be nice without saying, "Stiles, you give terrible head." He hopes it isn't terrible, since Derek at least gets off on it.  
  
Only when he has covered Derek's cock with his lips and tongue does he actually go down on him, sinking his mouth over as much of Derek's cock as he can without choking. It isn't much, but he gets to work quickly, using his tongue over the bit he can manage and stroking his hand up and down the rest.

 

 

There's something curious, almost exploratory in Stiles' technique, a holdover from late adolescent unsureness. Derek strokes his hair tenderly, following the contours of his head and tracing the shape of his cowlick. Stile knows exactly how he likes it; in the short-lapping flicks of his tongue and the long, deep presses, and in the skip-drag of his cheeks, Derek can feel his dedication.  
  
Which is a heady feeling, of course; it's a rush of pleasure coupled with the distinct joy of receiving. For just a few moments, Derek is free to _accept_ and _enjoy_ rather than to provide. He feels almost boneless, tensing his muscles only to roll his hips up slowly against Stiles or to toss his head when the teasing pushes him into the borderlands between _not enough_ and _just right.  
  
_ "So, so good," he hums, encouraging him, and he can see the tip of that upturned nose and those damn eyelashes, long, fluttery, beautiful. And a thought crosses his mind then -- not only does Stiles know what he likes, he _cares._ It's eagerness he feels, an earnest kind of devotion, and that's headier than the pleasure by far.  
  
"C'mere," Derek says, impassioned by the idea. He reaches for Stiles and the boy comes, though bewildered, and Derek thinks he can see a flash of hurt in his eyes as he reverses their positions, rolling him onto his back.   
  
"Don't worry," he murmurs hotly against the shell of his ear, reddening a soft cheek with the brush of his beard, "it's good, really good. I just want -- because you're gonna be gone a while --..." He directs Stiles' hand to his cock, and tells him to keep it there, steady, so he can fuck his fist.   
  
"Put your legs around me," Derek breathes, rolling his hips at a good clip, orgasm building in him from the combined heat of their bodies, and the look of Stiles underneath him, his, all his.

 

 

Stiles does as he's told, feeling his own orgasm creeping back up. Usually, he can only cum once during their encounters, but today seems like Derek is going to give him one for the road. He tightens his legs around Derek's waist and redoubles his efforts.  
  
It doesn't take long for Derek to cum, and as soon as Stiles cums a second time, Scott's horn honks from outside. Stiles jumps up, both in surprise and excitement. He haphazardly pulls on some clothes--he'll reek of Derek, but Scott and Isaac can deal--and picks up his bag. It's only as he's about to head out the door that he seems to remember Derek sitting on his bed.  
  
"Oh," he says, leaning down for a kiss, but then stopping mid-motion when he realizes how awkward that would be, so his movement looks more like a jerky dance than anything. He settles for patting Derek on the shoulder. "Thanks. For uh . . . That. I'll be home on Sunday. You can use the window, right?"  
  
He gives the Alpha a half-smile--doesn't want him to think Stiles stinks of desperation or anything--and jogs down the stairs. It takes all his willpower not to look back.

 

 

Alone, on his bed, the house is still. The echo of the door slamming still resounds, but only in his mind. Derek slowly hauls himself off the bedspread, mopping up their cum with a discarded t-shirt.   
  
"Bye," he mutters, stepping back into his jeans. His mother would tell him to leave him alone. He's too young. Not ready.  
  
Let him be.  
  
Derek pauses near the windowsill and turns, crossing to Stiles' dresser and stealing a few pairs of boxers and undershirts before he goes. He'll return them, he figures, before he gets home.

 

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I owe you guys the biggest apology. I sincerely haven't meant to put you through an emotional rollercoaster about this fic. In a nutshell, this is the update: 
> 
> 1\. Syd and I aren't writing together anymore. HOWEVER, I still have some chapters of Domestication to post. I admit I've been drawing it out because I want to make what I have left last (and because I felt like I lost a limb when Syd and I parted ways for good). 
> 
> 2\. Road Trip is finished. Hopefully, I can have it all posted within the week. 
> 
> That's all for now. Thank you guys so much for sticking with us/me through this. This is probably my favourite fic I've ever written. 
> 
> As for the future of Domestication, so so many of you have asked, and I've come to the conclusion that I absolutely cannot let it go. I'll either find a new RP partner to write Derek (if you're interested--nudge me!) or write him myself. I don't think it will ever be the SAME, but at least it can go ON. 
> 
> Merry Christmas, everyone.

No harm, he thinks, in texting him before bed. After all, they've been on the road some eight hours now.   
  
_hey_  
  
He's never been good at initiating their text conversations. He observes the word, single and stupid without context or warrant, and scowls. After a moment he decides to add something that will require some response.  
  
 _hope you didnt smell too much like cum._

 

"Hey," Stiles says, hopping into the backseat of Scott's car. Isaac is riding shotgun, and they both turn around when their friend joins them.  
  
"Dude," Scott says, his nose wrinking with displeasure.   
  
"You totally smell like cum," Isaac adds. "Derek's cum. Gross."  
  
Stiles rolls his eyes. "It's not like everyone in the pack doesn't know we're . . . " He can't say they're fucking. "Doing what we're doing. Besides, I've had to smell Allison on you how many times, Scott?"  
  
"Point taken. Conversation over," Isaac says, turning back around in his seat. "Let's go. I don't want any details about the sex either of you are having." Since they're both omegas, Isaac and Stiles are very well fighting for the same Alphas, but so far haven't had a spat over Derek. For all Stiles knows, they're fucking on the side, but he doesn't have to smell it, so whatever.  
  
The drive down to San Diego is about 10 hours, and they fill the drive with music and food and laughter. Stiles feels better than he has in weeks.

 

Derek is able to sleep even though Stiles has ignored his texts because he shoves the kid's boxers and undershirts beneath the case of an extra pillow and cradles it to his body. When his body heat warms the weave of the fabric Stiles' scent emanates from under the blankets as though his body is there, next to Derek's, slowly warming into sleep.  
  
But he wakes as though on cue for his 4:00 am piss.   
  
On his way to the bathroom, he scoops up his phone, expecting to see some kind of response, if only out of boredom on the road.  
  
But there's nothing. Derek scowls, and tries again, tapping in a brief message while he relieves himself.  
  
 _you there yet?  
  
_ He returns to bed, where his scent-sachet of a pillow has lost some of its edge.  
  
* * *  
  
Again at 6:00 am he wakes, blearily grasping his phone off the nightstand. He lazily scratches at his beard as he thumbs through his texts, certain there will be _something_ from Stiles at this point. Unless they hit rough traffic, they should be getting there right about now.   
  
Nothing.   
  
Derek glances back over their texts from the last few days, scanning for something that could've gone wrong to upset him.  
  
Maybe, he worries, Stiles was made uncomfortable by their last encounter. Maybe it was too much, maybe it was too close, maybe he overstepped some boundary without knowing it.   
  
_something going on?  
  
_ He figures it's neutral enough not to register too much concern, especially if Stiles is feeling smothered. And immediately once it's sent he's angry with himself for having done it; if Stiles is put off by claustrophobic intimacy then multiple unanswered texts won't help anything.

 

The first night of the music festival is one big party. Even after the bands are done, the merriment carries into the hotel. By the time Stiles falls asleep, he's drunk, happy and content. His only wish is for Derek to be with them.  
  
"Should've invited him," he slurs.  
  
Scott, who is sharing his queen-sized bed, snorts. "You're drunk. Go to sleep."  
  
On the other bed, Isaac is already fast asleep, the pillow beneath him wet with saliva.  
  
"Doesn't change my mind. I really like him, Scotty."  
  
"I know, buddy."  
  
*  
  
The next morning, Stiles pops two aspirin on the way back to the festival. His head is pounding, but as soon as he starts drinking again he'll feel better. It will also help him stop thinking about--  
  
"Derek," he says, digging for his phone.  
  
"What about him?" Isaac asks, pressing the button for the crosswalk. The night thing about San Diego is that they can walk everywhere they need to go.  
  
"I forgot to text him." But when he presses the power button on his phone, nothing happens. "Dammit, I forgot to charge my phone."  
  
"Do you want to go back?" Scott asks.  
  
Stiles makes a face. "It's not that big of a deal. Have either of you talked to him?"  
  
The others shake their heads.   
  
"It doesn't matter," Stiles sighs. "I don't want to look desperate, and he probably didn't text me, anyway."

 

At 7:00 am he sends another.  
  
 _the hell is going on?  
  
_ And this one he resolves to only give thirty minutes, because he deserves a goddamn answer. In the meantime Derek plants himself firmly on the couch, switching on the television to pass the time.   
  
Nothing but the morning news. Rain in San Francisco. Charity event for leukemia patients at the San Diego zoo. Warnings about wildfire in San Bernadino, residents advised to make proper arrangements in case of evacuations. Ten-car pileup after an eighteen wheeler overturned on 1-95 southbound, thirteen injured, three dead, more uncomfirmed.   
  
A cold sweat breaks over Derek.   
  
Thoughts begin to race: whose car? Not the jeep. Was it Lahey's? McCall's? Do either of them even have cars, what cars, has he seen them? Wasn't there -- a white pickup, or was that borrowed, rented?   
  
He thumbs frantically through pictures on his phone, scanning backgrounds, and damns himself for not having a facebook. Rising, he begins to pace, and calls Cora.  
  
"Derek?" she mutters sleepily.  
  
"Cora, get on your facebook. I need your help."  
  
"My _facebook?_ Derek, what the --"  
  
"I need to know what kind of car Lahey drives."  
  
"Isaac Lahey?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"White Ford pickup. F150, I think."  
  
"How do you --" rage would flare, but there's already distress, so Derek powers through it. "McCall? What does he drive?"  
  
"Um, I don't know."  
  
"Find out and text me."  
  
He snaps his phone shut and sits in front of the TV again, waiting for a break-in about the wreck. Thick black smoke fogs the air around the scene, so the helicopter footage isn't much help. A text comes in from Cora: _he has a motorcycle dont call me so early xx  
  
_ Had to be Lahey's pickup, then, and Derek squints into the screen as the anchorwoman says: "Area police are still releasing details. We'll check back within the hour for more."  
  
 _Area police...  
  
_ At the station he must seem completely unhinged, and though he's not sure what he's going to say to the sheriff, he leans over the counter to demand the officer at the reception desk let him back.  
  
"I need to see Sheriff Stilinski," he grates out, "it's urgent. It's about his son."

 

By ten, Stiles is already feeling sunburnt and well on his way to a good buzz. They've already met some girls who seem attracted to them--betas, though, and since Scott is with Allison none of the three seem interested in anything more than enjoying the music and sharing a beer.  
  
"I have to admit I'm a giant gear head," one of the girl whispers into Stiles' ear.  
  
"No way! My b-buddy back home is, too. He drives this sick Camaro that he cares about more than anything." Even more than me.   
  
The girl says something, but it's car-talk and Stiles only understands half of what she says. Mostly, he just smiles and nods.  
  
*  
  
Sheriff Stilinski is buried beneath a mountain of paperwork when Lisa, the front desk secretary, pages him. "Yeah?" This better be important because if he doesn't get these reports done, his ass is on the line.  
  
"Sheriff, there's a Derek Hale here to see you. He says it's important. Something about your son."  
  
The Sheriff stiffens. Stiles, he realises, hasn't called him since they left for the music festival the day before. He tries Stiles' phone, and when it goes straight to voicemail he gets even more concerned.  
  
"Send him in," he tells Lisa.

 

The cops came when the fire happened. Right to his school. Pulled him out of class and said _son, you might want to sit down.  
  
_ And he feels dizzy like that, like his knees might buckle, as he sinks down into the seat opposite the Sheriff's at his desk.  
  
"I haven't been able to reach Stiles since he left yesterday. Can't get McCall or Lahey, either. And I saw," he begins to tug absently at the metal tab of his zipper, straightening his jacket nervously, "I saw on the news there was a wreck. Pile-up. Three dead so far, so," he shudders, and gives the Sheriff a steely sort of look. "You should radio the Sacramento PD and see if they have names."  
  
The rush of putting it all into words makes him feel like he's had the wind knocked out of him, and he did pretty much say the whole thing in one panicked breath. He rakes his fingers through his hair, clearly distraught and short on sleep.

 

His first instinct is to drive down there himself, but as the Sheriff, he needs to follow the proper channels. Stiles can't even be considered missing until 48 hours have passed.   
  
"Have you tried Scott? Isaac?" Even as he asks, he pulls out his phone to dial Scott. The phone rings and rings. Finally, the voicemail kicks in and the Sheriff pokes his phone to end the call.  
  
His composure is wearing at the seams.  
  
"Derek, why are you so concerned about my son?" Focusing on Derek Hale, of all people, bursting into his office worried about Stiles, allows him to focus on something other than the terror creeping up his throat.  
  
*  
  
Uncapping his water bottle, Stiles drinks half and pours half over his head. He shakes the excess water out of his eyes, smirking as the girl--Malia, she says--shrieks in surprise.   
  
"It's just water." San Diego is much hotter than Beacon Hills, and the only saving grace is that his sunburn will give way to a nice tan.

 

Rage surges in his veins; why the _fuck_ is he calling McCall instead of wiring the Sacramento cops? It's just wasting time, and in the scant handful of seconds it takes for him to terminate the call, Derek nearly comes totally unglued.  
  
"I just _am,_ alright?" he returns sharply, settling his hand on his phone in his pocket. He checks it again, just in case: nothing.  
  
He taps in a quick text to Cora: _when was the last time stilinski/mccall/lahey updated their facebook?  
  
_ Snapping his head back up to the Sheriff, Derek's nostrils flare.   
  
"Look, we're just wasting time sitting here. Get in touch with the Sacramento cops. It's the only way we're going to know anything."

 

"I don't need you to tell me how to do my job," the Sheriff says, even as he reaches for the phone. His heart pounds as he waits for the Sacramento police department to pick up.  
  
"This is Sheriff Stilinski up in Beacon Hills. Have any of the names of the victims in that big accident been released, yet?"  
  
"I'm sorry, Sheriff, but we're contacting the victims' families before we release any information."  
  
Something settles in the Sheriff's stomach. "That's what I thought. Thank you very much." He hangs up the phone and relays the information back to Derek. "My hands are tied. Short of driving down there, all I can do is wait and hope we hear from Stiles in the meantime."  
  
*  
  
Malia is funny and cute, but she's no Alpha. Stiles' heart twists. He wishes he could be in to her, but with no way of knotting him, she doesn't have much to offer.  
  
"Where are you from?" he asks, leaning back on the blanket she spread over the grass. Scott and Isaac are off somewhere, but Stiles feels completely comfortable.

 

"That's not gonna cut it," Derek objects. He can't imagine how John is so nonchalant about something so important -- so urgent. "Look, call them back, tell them it's related to an investigation. Or I don't know, lie and say you're FBI. Or tell me what to say and I'll say it. But we need those fucking names."  
  
He's tense, sitting straight up, hands flexing at his sides.   
  
"This isn't _optional,_ okay? --"  
  
He pauses as Cora returns his text.  
  
 _um last updates were a couple days ago  
  
_ "--my sister said they haven't even updated their facebook statuses while they've been there. Doesn't that strike you as a _little fucking weird_?"

 

The Sheriff scrubs a hand over his face. His patience is wearing thing. "Derek, my son is a 16-year-old boy. Whether or not--or the frequency of when--he updates his Facebook status is not my highest priority. I don't make a habit of tracking my son's every move, and I don't take kindly to threats involving said child. Now, if you don't tell me exactly what is going on and why you're so worried, I'm going to have to ask you to leave my office." He pauses. "Stiles isn't doing drugs, is he?"  
  
*  
  
Stiles and Malia meet up with Scott and Isaac for lunch. Her friend, Kira, is obviously in to Scott, but doesn't seem to understand the phrase "I have a girlfriend." She's also a beta, and she's cute, but not as beautiful as Allison.  
  
They decide on a quick burger joint so they can get back to the fest as quick as possible.  
  
"I want everything, but hold the pickles," Stiles says. He's never pickles, something he got from his mother.  
  
"I don't like pickles, either," Malia says, winking like it will score her points.  
  
Stiles gives her a weak smile in return. He doesn't want to be mean, but he doesn't know how to say, "No, thank you," when he can't say, "I'm taken."

 

During the Sheriff's speech Derek sends Stiles one more text, just in case, on the off chance the kid is just scatterbrained and settling in. A limp hope flickers inside him when he hits send:  
  
 _stiles answer this please. i'm worried.  
  
_ Because it's unusual for him, he figures Stiles might take it seriously. But his phone doesn't buzz in his hand, and as he's threatened with _no further options_ he swallows hard and realizes with growing irritation that he'll have to give some reason.  
  
And why not the true one? At least if he gets arrested, he reasons feverishly, he'll be right here in the station house, listening to every update they get on Stiles.  
  
"Look, you wanna know why I'm worried? Stiles is -- Stiles is --" Derek gestures abortively, unable to come up with anything sensible. "Stiles is special to me, alright? Stiles is -- we're -- we're together. Okay? Look, here."   
  
He produces his phone, on the screen of which is a picture of himself and Stiles asleep in bed, quite obviously shirtless, with the aforementioned teen's head resting peacefully on his chest.   
  
"He means a lot to me. Now can you just fucking figure out if he's alive?"

 

At first, the Sheriff is too stunned to reply. His hand itches for his gun, but rationality tells him to keep it holstered.   
  
"You're sleeping with my underage son?" Every word must be forced out. Stiles has only had one heat, and he spent it on suppressants. There's no way, but . . .  
  
The proof is in the photo.  
  
The pieces begin to fall into place.  
  
"Derek, Stiles is very young. Have you considered the idea that maybe he is choosing not to reply to your messages because he's . . . breaking it off?" Somehow, it's easier for him to believe his son is dumping Derek Hale than it is for him to believe something happened.  
  
*  
  
Stiles draws the line at pairing off with Malia after lunch. She wants to drag him to one of the stages where a hippy girlband is playing, but he's not missing Oasis for that.  
  
"Sorry," he says, "Scott and Isaac are waiting for me."  
  
He sneaks away from her, wishing more than ever that he had his phone on him.

 

Of course the thought had crossed his mind. It was the first one that had, as a matter of fact, but Derek brushed it off then as he's brushing this off now.   
  
"No, no way. Look, does Stiles do _anything_ quietly? If he wanted to break it off, he wouldn't do it with the silent treatment."  
  
He shakes his head again, as if reassuring himself that it can't be possible. Naturally John is perturbed by the whole thing, and what rational father wouldn't be? But Derek knows he can't backtrack now, not when he has the other man at least convinced of his stake in this.  
  
"I haven't -- _been_ with him, not like _that,_ " he grits out, jaw tight. And it's more or less true. The one time they did try, it was an all-out disaster. "It's just been -- look, I'm not going to let him get knocked up in high school, alright? Just, _for fuck's sake,_ John, you gotta check on him. I can't believe you're just letting this go."

 

"I'm going to regret this," John groans, glancing at the stack of papers on his desk. He grabs the car keys out of his desk and pages Lisa. "I'm going to be out of the office today. Family emergency." He doesn't wait for her reply.  
  
The drive down to San Diego takes about nine hours. The Sheriff's lights and sirens can only get them as far as the south border of Beacon County; after that he's just another motorist.  
  
They don't speak much, which suits John just fine. He just wants to find his son and wring his scrawny little neck for all of this. At least, he really hopes Stiles is alive and chokeable, but he won't let himself dwell on what-ifs.  
  
They arrive at the festival and park. It's early in the evening, and the festivities are just beginning to gear up. The place is crawling with kids Stiles' age.  
  
"How do you expect to find them?" John sighs. "All I know is that he wanted to see that one band--Mirage? Or something?"

 

Derek can't get out of the car quickly enough. He throws open the door and stumbles out, shrugging his jacket on.   
  
"I'll find him," Derek scowls. And he'll be able to do it by smell.   
  
It's night and the crowd is swaying with lighters up and joints blazing, and though his nose is assaulted by the tinge of sweat and body odor and patchouli oil, he catches the barest whiff of Stiles' scent in the muddle of the Oasis set.   
  
"It's Oasis," he calls back to the Sheriff, shoving through the crowd of teenagers slowly undulating to _Don't Look Back in Anger.  
  
_ Somehow he manages to elbow his way into a bit of a clearing, and through the bodies he catches the scent clearly, enhanced by sweat -- fucking delicious, salty-sweet and clean sweat that smells like the best cozy iteration of saltwater -- and he darts forward, keeping the trail.   
  
"Stiles!" he shouts, waving his hand, "Stiles!"

 

Oasis is halfway done with their set, and Stiles is enjoying himself thoroughly. He finally gets to see his favourite band. Nothing could compete with this moment. Well, until he thinks he hears Derek calling his name. He brushes it off because that's ridiculous.  
  
"Stiles!"  
  
He whirls around and finds himself facing Derek . . . and his dad.  
  
"Uhh, what are you guys doing here?" he asks, although he has to shout over the music.  
  
Malia, he notices, edges farther from him. He wants to be thankful that she has finally given him some breathing room, but he can't seem to focus.

 

Derek grabs him by his shoulders and crushes him against his chest.  
  
"Stiles," he pants, "I thought you were, oh, fuck."  
  
It takes a long moment for his heart to slow down, but when it does, Sheriff Stilinski is practically prying them apart with a steely glare.  
  
"There was a wreck on I-95 southbound. Nobody could get in touch with any of you."  
  
Sheriff steps in, scowling. "Stiles, what's the matter with you? Why haven't you been answering your phone?"   
  
Derek frowns a bit as the Sheriff stares imperiously at him, and mutters to Stiles, off-handedly: "I had to tell him."

 

Stiles states at them, confusion still etched across his face. "My phone died, so I left it in the hotel today to charge." He looks back and forth between his dad and Derek. "You really drove all the way down here because you thought something happened to me?"  
  
A feeling of warmth spreads through Stiles' chest. Derek was worried about him. Derek was worried about him enough that he somehow convinced his dad to drive all the way down here just to find him.  
  
"I'm fine," he says, torn between his excitement at seeing Derek and desire to watch Oasis. "Are you guys gonna stay for the rest of the set?" He glances back at the stage. "It's almost over. Then we could go get something to eat? Or something?" His heart is thumping, but he just wants to finish this after his favorite band leaves the stage. He can only deal with so many life-altering moments at a time.

 

Derek's nostrils flare. He opens and then closes his mouth uselessly, well aware the Sheriff is glaring daggers at him.  
  
A jolt of cold awareness runs through him. This means that Stiles will be returning to a hotel room sometime soon with a phone filled with increasingly plaintive and distressed texts from a guy he's just experimenting with, and there's nothing Derek can do about it.   
  
And he's preparing to leave, to turn and flee, but where to go? The Sheriff has the keys, and Derek doubts he's leaving without having a good stern talk with his son.   
  
But evidently only _after_ his set. John says something briefly to Stiles likely having to do with being responsible, then steps away cell-in-hand, likely to assure everyone back at the station house that his sudden departure was rather a false alarm this time.  
  
"I had to tell him, Stiles," Derek explains over the music, "I can't believe you just let your goddamn phone die."   
  
Still, against all common wisdom, relief creeps in. Stiles' teenage recklessness is hellishly frustrating but at least that's all it is; Derek had been stricken with anxiety that they would arrive here and he would be unable to smell anything of Stiles at all. He pulls Stiles closer to him by his hand as he sways with the crowd, because he has the sense the kid isn't really listening to him, which is usually tolerable but not in this moment: Derek is feeling something now that he doesn't want to be alone in.   
  
"Are you even listening? We were -- I was _worried._ "  
  
Been a long time since he's felt that way and he doesn't like it, can't stand the dizzy tightness in his chest and the bone-deep knowledge he lacks all control.   
  
But he doesn't let go of his hand, either, and maybe that's why. With Stiles' fingers laced with his he has him, at least for a minute, at least for now. Derek ignores the noise and the motion and the scents and stares at Stiles' profile in the evening dimness, wishing for all the world he could un-send all those texts, go back in time, and just let him be here with his friends, where he's happy.

 

"Hey," Stiles says, pulling Derek closer by their joined hands, "It's okay. I'm okay."  
  
Derek doesn't release his hand for the rest of the set, and not only does it make him feel happy and safe and _loved_. Malia has also drifted off into the crowd, and for that, Stiles is thankful.  
  
 _See? I_ am _taken_.  
  
When Oasis wraps up, they find Scott and Isaac in the crowd.   
  
"Uh, are we in trouble?" Scott asks, glancing from Stiles and Derek's joined hands to the Sheriff's face. Stiles noticed that Isaac surreptitiously hands off his beer to a fellow festival-goer.  
  
The Sheriff shakes his head, exhaustion and frustration evident on his face. "Let's just go get something to eat and we can all talk about this." He looks pointedly at Derek.  
  
As they walk out of the front gates, Stiles leans into Derek's ear. "I'm really glad you found me," he says, giving the werewolf's hand a squeeze.

 

Smoke disorients him still, makes him dizzy with memory. Otherwise he wouldn't follow Stiles so readily, so blindly, led along like a horse on a halter as he lumbers behind him. Somehow he winds up deposited in the vinyl booth of a late-night diner across from Stiles, watching him blankly as he chows down on a burger and fries. Derek is decidedly not hungry, and refused to order when their waitress came by.  
  
Even she seemed off-put by the palpable tension. The Sheriff hasn't stopped glaring at Derek, observing every hint of an interaction between him and Stiles with visible disdain.   
  
Isaac focuses on his chicken-fried-steak, and Scott slurps his milkshake in silence.  
  
"So, um," Isaac tries weakly, "how was your drive down?"  
  
It does nothing to dispel the tangible unease. The waitress drops by again, and Scott orders a second milkshake, Derek thinks, mainly to have something to do with his mouth that obviates talking.   
  
Derek finally breaks the silence.  
  
"I didn't force him to do anything."

 

Even with his mouth full of burger, Stiles' expression tightens. "Are you accusing him of statutory rape?" Stiles asks, though the words come out more garbled. He swallows and tries again. "Because we haven't had sex, and it was _definitely_ consensual."  
  
Scott and Isaac grow increasingly uncomfortable, and Stiles shoots them an apologetic look.  
  
"When you didn't answer your phone, _this one,_ " the Sheriff points to Derek like he's a suspect, "came bursting into my office like a bat out of hell because he was convinced that you three were killed in a 13-car pileup on the interstate. Stiles, is it that hard to remember your phone? You practically begged me for the damn thing."  
  
Stiles' ears turn pink and he shoves his mouth full of fries to avoid answering. "I didn't think it was important," he says finally. "You weren't supposed to miss me." He looks across the table at Derek, and in his heart of hearts, he knows he's fallen hard for the other man.

 

Under the weight of Stiles' dismissal Derek practically squirms. _Weren't supposed to miss me?_ The hell did that mean?   
  
He tightens his mouth into a thin white line and shrugs, the leather of his jacket giving that distinctive creak.  
  
"I told you I didn't want you to go," he submits, as close as he can come to providing evidence that he wanted Stiles to _stay._ Which he did, and not only because they happened to be in the middle of a round of particularly hot sex when he made the admission, but also because he is less well, all around, when Stiles is away.  
  
Which doesn't mean he won't be charged with some form of statutory sex crime.  
  
"I showed him a picture," Derek admits tightly, "to prove -- it."  
  
The flash of his eyes lets Stiles know that though the Sheriff may not be aware of what they've done, it at least landed them in bed together nude.   
  
Isaac watches the exchange like a tennis match, his wide blue eyes gravitating back to Derek at last.

 

"Well," Stiles says, pushing his plate away and pulling his milkshake towards himself. "This is incredibly awkward." Not to mention the fact that they all very narrowly got away with underage drinking when his dad (The Sheriff) decided to show up with his not-boyfriend. His mind is already spinning with thoughts of what's to come. They still have one more day of the festival, and there's no way his dad and Derek want to (or should) drive all the way back to Beacon Hills tonight.  
  
"So, are you guys leaving tonight or in the morning?"  
  
John raises his eyebrows and glances at Derek. They hadn't discussed anything past finding Stiles. "I suppose we'll get a hotel room and leave in the morning. And no," he levels his gaze at Stiles, "before you even ask, you two are _not_ staying in the same room. Just because I'm not pressing charges does not mean I am condoning this . . . whatever you two have going on."  
  
"Well, I'm not sharing a bed with Derek, anyway," Isaac says, drawing everyone's eyes to him. "What? I happen to know that Derek snores. Loudly."  
  
Stiles finishes the last of his milkshake, silently thanking Isaac for taking the heat off him for the moment. All he wants now is to get back to the hotel so he can read these text messages he missed.

 

"I'll get my own room," Derek mutters, pushing back from the table and standing. "I'm taking a walk."  
  
Which he can do because he already knows what hotel they're staying in, given that he'd been with Stiles when the kid had made the reservations. He had needed a little help doing it because he hadn't done it before.  
  
And Derek had helped him.  
  
San Diego is warm and humid at night, alive with music and kids spilling out of bars and bistros, girls in cut-offs and bikini tops with their hair pulled up into messy loops, shirtless guys with rosy-gold sunburns.   
  
Some of them call after him, offering drinks and joints, but Derek shrugs them off, hands in his pockets.   
  
In one palm he cradles his phone, waiting to feel a buzz. Stiles will most likely suggest they cool it for a while, which makes sense; he doesn't want to lose privileges, and even if the Sheriff isn't pressing charges he'll likely place other strictures on his son. And Derek doesn't want to see him punished.

 

Stiles feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room as he watches Derek walk out the door. His dad pays for his meal and then with a firm hand on his shoulder, directs him out the door.   
  
The two of them go back to the hotel to get Stiles' phone; Scott and Isaac head back to the festival with a promise to meet up later.   
  
"Am I grounded?" Stiles asks, swiping the card in the lock so they can enter the room. Thankfully, the three of them have done a semi-decent job of keeping the place cleaned up. Housekeeping has made the beds, cleaned the bathroom, and taken out the trash, so other than the piles of clothes, there is little evidence of the partying they've done. Stiles breathes out a sigh of relief when he sees that the remaining beer cans are gone. The last thing he needs right now is for his dad to come down on him about underage drinking.   
  
The Sheriff waits until the door closes behinds them to speak. "I'm not angry with you, Stiles. I'm tired, I'm frustrated, and I've got a pile of work waiting for me on my desk."   
  
Stiles winces.   
  
"But most of all, I'm glad your safe, and if you had to see an Alpha behind my back, I'm glad it was one who cared enough about your well-being to admit to said liaison when he new I was armed." The Sheriff takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. He picks Stiles' phone up off the nightstand and presses it into his son's palm. "Now, you're gonna go have fun and drink and pretend I have no idea what you're doing. I'm going to get a room, preferably in this hotel, and get some sleep. I'll see the you in the morning." He starts for the door, stops, and turns around. "And Stiles?"   
  
"Yeah, Dad?"   
  
"If you ever do something like this again, I'll ground you until graduation. Are we clear?"   
  
"Yes, Sir."   
  
The door shuts and Stiles is left in the silence of the hotel room. He looks down at his phone and sees that he has 22 missed calls and 36 text messages. There are a few from Cora and several from his father, but the majority are from Derek. He skims through the text messages, feeling his heart swell with every one.   
  
 _hope you didnt smell too much like cum.  
  
you there yet?   
  
something going on?   
  
the hell is going on?  
  
stiles answer this please. i'm worried.  
  
_"He was totally fucking worried," Stiles says to himself, a smile blossoming on his face. While he's not pleased that he made Derek worried, he's happy to know that the Alpha _does_ care. 

_thnx for the concern, loser,_ he types, then erases it. He needs to find Derek, not push him away.   
  
Stiles considers this for a moment. He could be embarrassed and angry that they drove all the way here only to find that Stiles was _fine_. Then again, he wasn't trying to find Stiles dismembered or something.   
  
 _didn't kno u cared_ , he types, and erases that, too.   
  
Finally, he types, _miss u. meet me at info booth?_ and pockets his phone. 

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still here? I'm @moitmiller on Tumblr, if you wanna chat.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of Roadtrip. I hope you guys enjoyed the prequel to Domestication, and I'm soso sorry again for taking so long. 
> 
> However. 
> 
> I have GREAT news. My dear darlingest Naemi has agreed to write the Peter/Isaac story. It's not going to be in RP form, so it will be a little different than Domestication, but I trust her to maintain the integrity of what we've been doing here.

The information booth is the first stand next to the entrance gates of the festival. Only a blind man could miss it. Stiles parks himself eagerly and anxiously against the side of the building, watching every person who enters, searching for a leather jacket and a devastatingly beautiful scruffy cheek. 

 

When his phone buzzes he hesitates.   
  
It could be bad news, he thinks, and he doesn't want to deal with that here, in public, lost in the pulse of a crowd on a nighttime San Diego street. Everything smells like sunscreen and the yeasty sweetness of beer and sweat and his noes searches the air for Stiles despite him.   
  
Finally he removes it enough from his pocket to glance at the screen.  
  
Derek's brows rise. By info booth he assumes Stiles means the little building he shoved his way past when they arrived looking for him. He reorients himself and makes it there in about ten minutes, and he thinks if Stiles asks he'll tell him he just didn't happen to be too far away.  
  
And there -- in multicolored light, all of them hanging overhead, glowing against the night sky -- is Stiles. Sweat-shined and ragged from pleasure, but Stiles.  
  
He waves. It must look awkward he thinks, newly self-conscious. Somewhere along the night he shrugged of his jacket, and now carries it under his arm.   
  
"Hey," he murmurs, drawing close enough to be heard over the roar of laughter and shouting in the evening crowd. "How'd you get out?"

 

Before he answers, Stiles throws both arms around Derek's neck and plants a wet kiss on his mouth. He didn't think he would get to do this for several more days, so he's going to take the opportunity while he has it.   
  
"My dad is getting a room and packing it in for the night. Basically, he just told me to be good."   
  
He smoothes his hands down Derek's chest. Suddenly, he's not so interested in seeing the rest of the festival, especially when he's got his dad's blessing to . . . keep doing what he's been doing.   
  
"So, we could go watch Everclear . . . or . . . " He slides his hands into the back pockets of Derek's jeans and pulls him closer. "We could go back to my hotel room? Isaac and Scott won't be back there until at least midnight." 

 

Nose-to-nose with Stiles with the kid's hands planted firmly on his ass, it's hard to turn him down, and curiously easy to consider bottoming for him. Derek is well aware this will probably be their last hurrah -- definitely for a while, perhaps forever -- and he wants to make the best of it rather than to regret it. He rolls his hips around Stiles and laces his finger around his lower back, following up the kiss with a few minutes of soulful face-sucking that earns whoops and catcalls from festival-goers.   
  
When they break it's only to stumble back to the hotel.   
  
Derek follows him into his room, sniffing disapprovingly at the commingled scents of Scott and Isaac.   
  
"You really shouldn't be drinking," he chides him, settling down on someone's bed and yanking Stiles closer by his t-shirt. "'S not good for you."   
  
With one fist balled in his shirt and the other firmly clasped on the back of his neck, Derek tugs Stiles down with him for another round of kissing, licking deeply into his mouth, extending his neck with the effort.   
  
"I worry about you," he adds, deep, husky, confessional.

 

"I like that," Stiles pants back into the heat of Derek's mouth. It's the first time the Alpha has openly admitted it, outside of the text messages he sent. It settles something inside of Stiles, some deep need to be cared for, especially by an Alpha. It makes him want to lay down, belly-up, and let Derek have his way.  
  
"And I didn't get that drunk. I was just a little tipsy. I made it back here to the room before I puked, even." And he did. He remembers it in bigs and pieces, but he definitely threw up in the toilet and not on Scott's shoes, like he worried he would. "I'm really glad you came after me," Stiles says, trailing a tender hand down Derek's cheek. For what it's worth, he's thankful that their friendship, at least, has gotten them this far.  
  
"Do you think . . . " he has to swallow and lick his lips before he can get the entire sentence out. "Do you think you would be willing to help me through my next heat? You'll have to get permission from my dad and stuff, since the last one I was on suppressants, and I'm only seventeen, but I just thought . . . " he trails off, hands twisting nervously as he waits for Derek's reply.

 

If Derek's concern is a natural aphrodisiac for Stiles' inner omega, then Stiles' wanton vulnerability is the very same for his inner Alpha. Derek gathers Stiles into his arms in one irresistible pull, one forearm tight across the small of his back, the other slung around his shoulders. He lays back to pull him onto the bed and then reverses their position, landing one knee in between Stiles' slightly parted thighs as he sucks at his mouth.   
  
"I'll help you through it," he murmurs between mouthfuls of Stiles' tongue, managing to peel his shirt off and unbuckle his belt all without lifting his lips from the other's for more than brief seconds at a time. With his hair tousled and his skin flushed with growing arousal, Derek looks more like the festival-fuck he pictured Stiles having than the dedicated partner he senses himself quickly becoming.   
  
As his hand settles on the button of Stiles' jeans, Derek nuzzles his cheek, speaking against his ear.   
  
"You know this isn't -- casual," he breathes, and if they're to the point of easing each other through heats it probably doesn't need saying, but given that the kid needed to hear firsthand that Derek worries about him the werewolf presumes he could do with a firm declaration. As if to punctuate it, he snaps open Stiles' fly and cups the tender parts underneath.

 

 _Of course it's not casual,_ Stiles thinks, _Derek wouldn't help just anyone through his heat. He probably has a waiting list a mile long._  
  
"I know," he whispers against Derek's cheek, allowing the spark of arousal to burn through his entire body. Bucking into Derek's hand, Stiles lets out a breathy sort of moan, the kind reserved for encounters like this. He doesn't often let himself go entirely, but he feels like now is a somewhat necessary time to do so.   
  
He pulls away to peck a kiss against the Alpha's lips before slithering down Derek's body. They don't have _too_  much time before Scott and Isaac get back to the room, and Stiles doesn't want to be caught in the act, as it were.   
  
Derek is already hard and straining against the fabric of his jeans, so Stiles wastes no time divesting him of the material. He parts the fabric almost reverently, as though he is paying homage to the Alpha's cock. Each time he gets to do this feels like a gift, and he's not one to look that horse in the mouth. 

 

For a beginner -- or perhaps precisely because he's a beginner -- Stiles gives _outstanding_ head. A whole lifetime of Derek's emotional needs are met by the sweet sincerity of his technique, the generosity and genuineness of it. Stiles is a little sloppy and a little erratic but somehow he manages to look like he's just fallen in love every time the tip of Derek's cock is nestled against his tongue, and the Alpha can't get enough.   
  
He brings his hand to rest against the back of Stiles' head, stroking over the soft short strands.   
  
"You're so fucking _good_ at that," he breathes, propping himself up on his elbow to keep his eyes on Stiles as he works. All the while he maintains that peculiar expression -- brows knit, lips slightly parted, the shape of his front teeth visible in the gap -- somewhere between expectant and deeply focused, with an edge of affection.

 

Stiles smiles as best he can with a dick in his mouth. He concentrates on keeping his rhythm while rolling his eyes up towards Derek. It's harder to suck him this way, but Stiles knows he looks hot like this.  
  
When he does finally pull off, he says, "Well, I'll have to take your word for it, considering you're the only person I've been with."  
  
Some omegas, Stiles knows, experiment with one another "just to see what it would be like with an Alpha." The only omega he's friends with is Isaac, and he's probably the last person Stikes would experiment with. Isaac is Scott's friend, and he's in Derek's pack, so Stiles mostly tolerates him because he has to. If it was up to him, he and Scott would have taken on the festival alone.  
  
Before his words can register in Derek's mind, Stiles dives back down on the Alpha's cock. It's easier like this, when he doesn't have to talk. Derek seems much more likely, of the two of them, to share his feelings during sex, and Stiles isn't ready for that with a fuck buddy.

 

Derek isn't literate enough in his own emotions to understand the strange resounding _lack_ that he can sense, the missed beat where there should be _something_ but instead is nothing. Vaguely he can sense it, something stuck inside him, a yawning sort of gap, hanging over him like an intention unfulfilled, something he meant to say but didn't. When he glances down at Stiles working fastidiously between his legs the clench around his heart tightens, twinges, dissipates finally with an influx of pleasure.   
  
"Must be a natural," he grunts, threading his fingers through his hair, sweat-damp and boyishly fine.  
  
The tip of Stiles' tongue ghosts over his knot and Derek's hips jolt; he can feel his cock twitch and leak precum readily, which Stiles swallows down with that same guileless eagerness.  
  
"Just like that," he pants, directing those long fingers to the swell of his knot, showing him how to pull from underneath to simulate tying. In just a few sharp strokes, with Derek rocking into Stiles' mouth incessantly, his pleasure crests an surges an he feels himself coming hard, thighs tense and balls tightened with the effort.

 

Eagerly, Stiles swallows down all that Derek gives him. He's not sure he cares much for the taste of cum, but he loves look on Derek's face mid-coitus, so he can deal with it. With his lips wrapped as far down as he can, he makes sure to give special attention to the knot. It's no secret that that is the most sensitive part of an Alpha's cock.  
  
Only when the hand in his hair releases does Stiles sit back on his heels, allowing Derek's cock to slip out of his mouth. His hand strays to the open vee of his jeans were his own cock is pressing insistently against the fabric of his boxers. It seems pushy to ask, but he's afraid he's going to blow any minute, anyway.  
  
"So, uh, do you think you might want to return the favor?"  
  
He helps Derek's decision-making by standing up and dropping his jeans and boxers together. His cock springs up, hard and aching already. It's not nearly as big as Derek's--probably never will be, since he's an omega--but it still feels good when it's touched. He just hopes the Alpha isn't planning to leave him hanging tonight. While Derek's never done that before, Stiles wouldn't put it past him.  
  
It's not like they're mates or anything, anyway.

 

It's distressing Stiles suspects he doesn't intend to reciprocate. Derek quirks one thick brow, regaining his composure in shades, and gives a nod with a hint of _obviously._  
  
"C'mere," he grunts, pushing himself up on an elbow to reach for him. Normally he'd just reverse their positions and blow Stiles on his back where he can pin his hips and control his thrusting; this occasion is different, and so he just pulls the squirming boy toward him, spreading his thighs over his waist and then the broadness of his chest.   
  
From there, with Stiles effectively straddling his shoulders, he reaches up and grasps his achingly hard cock, giving him a teasing squeeze punctuated with a long, twisting stroke.  
  
"Look at me, alright?" he stipulates, with a piercing sort of glance upward. At least if Stiles is making eye contact he'll know if he's about to faint, which is a risk given the heat and the booze and the length of the day.   
  
And Stiles' face is what he likes best about him, anyway, though he wouldn't admit it. With his sex so close Derek's senses are flooded with his scent, faintly sweet and musky. He settles a hand on the boy's hip and jerks him forward, enveloping the tip of his sex with his mouth.

 

Like Stiles could look anywhere _but_ Derek's face in this position. The Alpha looks like he's been chiseled from stone, and Stiles had memorised what he looks like the first week they met. He knew he'd never seen a more beautiful Alpha. The beauty before him nearly stops his heart and takes his breath.  
  
"I will," he says as he exhales. With his knees tucked up in Derek's armpits, Stiles settles his hands on the older man's shoulders. Putting them on Derek's face may be a bit too intimate, and Stiles isn't sure he's prepared for the consequences those thoughts might bring.  
  
Despite his position on top, Stiles allows Derek to set the pace, the omega in him comfortable with an Alpha taking the reigns. As soon as his dick slides into the warm cavern of Derek's mouth, Stiles lets out a high-pitched whine of pleasure. It's only been a couple of days since they last did this, but it feels like an eternity.  
  
"I would practically pay you for this," Stiles says, curling his body over Derek's head. Unable to help himself, he runs one hand through Derek's thick dark hair.

 

 _It's not like that.  
  
_ Derek's brows knit together for the briefest moment as his eyes scan upward; Stiles' absolute insistence on seeing this as _nothing_ is troubling. But he figures the best way to convince him there's room for something is the same way he managed to convince himself: through action, not words.   
  
There's nobody else he'd do this for, lay beneath, spread out, vulnerable. There's certainly no one else he'd let fuck his throat.  
  
And he allows it, both hands settling on Stiles' hips as he works them steadily, relaxing the muscles at the back of his throat as the head of his cock pushes against them bluntly. He swallows around the tip as he rocks Stiles in and out, thumbs stroking the ridges of bone.   
  
When he stops to catch his breath he kisses wetly down the shaft and mouths at that perfect set of balls, tonguing the crease and then licking his way back up until Stiles is sheathed in his throat again.

 

Derek's tongue on his balls alone is almost enough to make Stiles cum. Well, it's between that and the head of his cock in Derek's throat. It takes all of his willpower to keep from shooting off straight away. The alcohol in his system is doing its part to keep him from blowing prematurely, though it's also made him a bit dizzy.  
  
All too soon he feels the tingling in his balls that may be too hard to control.  
  
And then the door swings open.   
  
Stiles is too far gone to register the sound of a key card in the lock, and Derek is too . . . well, his super-hearing must be on the fritz lately, given the fact that he drove all the way down here on a whim.  
  
At least it isn't his father.  
  
"Jesus, Stiles, really?"  
  
Scott being like his brother isn't much better, but at least Stiles has the presence of mind to pull out of Derek's mouth and tuck himself hastily away. Unfortunately, their surprise visitors have done nothing to dampen his erection.  
  
"What are you guys doing back already?" he asks, trying to act like his best friend didn't just find him getting the best blowjob of his short life.

 

It's not like he has time to think it through. When the disturbance alerts him he acts purely on instinct; if Stiles hadn't already been rolling to the side in search of his jeans, it would've been all the more obvious that Derek _shoved him_ to the side, placing himself between Stiles and the intruders.  
  
Who turn out to be nothing more than a couple of gawking assholes.  
  
Derek growls, jerking the blankets up over himself and scrambling back into his jeans. Isaac doesn't have the decency or presence of mind to turn away.  
  
"Don't you motherfuckers _knock?"_ Derek hisses.  
  
"Dude, it's _our room,_ " Scott reminds him, grimacing, "couldn't you have put a bandana on the door or something?"  
  
Derek is on his feet immediately, shoving past Isaac and Scott. He's in the corridor in seconds, Isaac glancing after him.  
  
"You didn't tell me it was getting serious," he grins at Stiles, appraising him knowingly.   
  
Scott just shudders.

 

"Not anymore!" Stiles growls, still attempting to hide the obvious erection in his jeans. "You're just mad because I'm the only one getting any on this trip."  
  
"Not true," Isaac says, tilting his head to the side. "Remember that omega you were talking to earlier? Malia? She totally blew me behind the port-a-potties."  
  
"You're not gay."  
  
Isaac shrugs. "Neither is she."  
  
"This is ridiculous." Stiles pushes past him and into the hall. He's hoping to catch Derek before he bolts.   
  
Thankfully, the Alpha is still there (for now, at least) and Stiles relaxes visibly. "Hey, uh, sorry about that. Isaac and Scott I mean, not--not the other stuff. The other stuff was good."  
  
He pauses, not quite sure what else to say. "I meant what I said before. About my heat. I hope this doesn't change anything."

 

Derek's nostrils flare.   
  
It's not what he overheard that disturbs him -- what does he care if Isaac is getting down with some other omega? -- but rather the jealousy he could sense seeping off the blond. Not only had he been virtually unaware that Isaac was interested in him, it troubles him to think that everyone can see what's going on but Stiles.  
  
"Listen," he says, soft and low, in case the other two wolves are attempting to eavesdrop -- which he presumes they are. "Come with me. I need to check in. Then we can..." he gestures vaguely to someplace decidedly below Stiles' belt, "...finish this."  
  
Even if his erection goes down, Derek supposes, he'll still be hypersensitive when they start in on round two.

 

"Sure!" Stiles says before he can stop himself and then winces at how pathetically over-eager he sounds. Derek probably just feels bad that he didn't get off. "I mean, yeah, okay, if you want to." He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans to keep them from adding to the embarrassment his mouth has just caused.  
  
"Let me just grab my stuff."  
  
He doesn't wait to see if that's okay with Derek. They've never spent the night together, but Stiles is not going to let this opportunity slip through his fingers. It almost makes him wish he blew off the festival all together, but that would mean Derek _didn't_ come after him, and he rather likes the way that turned out.  
  
Scott and Isaac watch as he grabs what he can find of the clothes he's thrown around the room and shoves them into his backpack.  
  
"Dude, what about your dad?" Scott asks.  
  
"Well, if he shows up, just tell him I got drunk again and passed out. I'll be back before he gets here in the morning."  
  
"I got you." Scott holds out his fist, which Stiles bumps with his own. At least he can count on his best friend.  
  
Derek is waiting for him in the hallway, much to Stiles' relief. "You ready?" he asks, shifting the bag on his shoulder.

 

Luckily check-in is quick. Derek heads up with his keycard, Stiles in tow, to a blissfully quiet room on a higher, less occupied floor. For their purposes he was willing to pay the difference.   
  
He checks the hall in both directions as he lets Stiles in ahead of him. It's clear, and so he files in behind, locking the door behind them.   
  
No interruptions, then.  
  
As the still, sterile quiet of the fresh hotel room settles into him he again dislodges his jacket from his shoulders and lets it pool on the floor, and then turns to Stiles. He approaches him directly, almost predatory, and loosens the backpack straps from his shoulders until the bag is on the ground. Then he dips, lifting him from beneath the knees, and carries him to bed.   
  
Derek lowers him onto his back and thinks he's never been this close to an omega, not like this. Stiles' face, though sunburnt and a little tired, is beautiful, pure -- something about him is _ripe_ and _fertile_ and Derek can feel his wolf pace and stalk inside him.   
  
He pins each wrist as he leans in to kiss him, a knee dipping the mattress between Stiles' thighs as he settles his weight there. And he kisses deeper, more insistently than he has to, tongue sweeping along the innermost reaches of his mouth, then softly against his inner-cheeks, finally licking at his lips.   
  
"How do you want to finish?" he asks, scanning Stiles' face with glaring intensity. "We've got all night."

 

Stiles squirms under the intense scrutiny, though it kindles the fire inside him. He wants to get off like _now_ , but the prospect of _all night long_ seems even better.  
  
He turns doe eyes on Derek, hoping its enough to get something different. "Could we . . . " he pauses, blushes, stammers, but all of these things are for Derek's benefit. "Do you think we could just sort of . . . rub off on each other?" He knows there's a word for it--hell, he's seen it in porn--but he's too worked up to remember. He just wants to lay naked with Derek and get off together. It's as close as they can get to fucking without doing the deed, and he really wants that sort of intimacy tonight.  
  
"If thats weird, or something, you can just blow me, or whatever," he adds hastily.  
  
His dick will be up for anything, after all.

 

That'll work.   
  
Derek begins methodically stripping Stiles' clothes off, meditating all the while on what it will be like to unwrap him when they're really getting ready to have sex. Not that he's dissatisfied with the idea of frotting with Stiles until they get each other off, but penetrative intercourse does appeal to his inner-alpha in a way even the most intimate outercourse doesn't.   
  
Derek runs his open palms from Stiles' thighs to his shoulders, stroking over the newly naked expanse of him in one long, tender sweep.  
  
As he kisses him again he undoes his own fly and shoves his jeans and boxers down his hips, yanking his shirt off during a break in their kiss. He drops to his side, pulling Stiles against him by the angled shape of his hip.  
  
"Take it slow," he implores, lips bumping against Stiles' as he murmurs.

 

Whining softly, Stiles squirms against Derek's body. Telling him to go slow is like telling fire not to be hot. "I'll try," he concedes finally, "but if I blow, it's not like I can't go again."  
  
 _Slow_ , Stiles tells himself. He can do slow.  
  
He starts by tracing his fingertips down the thick expanse of Derek's chest. Sometimes he feels like a little boy next to the Alpha; although, as an omega, perhaps he should. When he's staring into the bathroom mirror, Stiles doesn't think much about how he looks, but when he's laying next to Derek, all he can see are his own nobby knees and pale skin. He has only a small tuft of hair on his chest and a bit more on his belly while Derek's is covered in soft, black curls, not unlike the feeling of fur. It is this to which Stiles is drawn. He presses his palm down, forcing the small hairs between the webbing of his fingers. The feeling of Derek's body hair against his skin excites him every time.  
  
Next. Stiles turns his attention to Derek's rosy pink nipples. He knows the Alpha is watching him, but Derek wanted slow, so that's what he's going to get. First, Stiles rolls them each in his fingers until they're hard little balls. His own nipples have been hard since they walked in this room, and that's not to mention the leaking dick between his legs. He lowers his mouth to Derek's chest, laving his tongue on first one and then the other. It gives him an opportunity to rub his cheek against Derek's hairy chest, and Stiles allows a purr of contentment to escape his lips.

 

When he wants to be, Stiles is good at foreplay. Derek thinks it must just be the leftovers of his innocent curiosity; when they first started fooling around, Stiles had seemed almost fascinated by his body. Now he knows it well enough, Derek suspects, to be more pleased than intrigued. But he does a good imitation of fascination, which Derek rewards firstly with soft moans and throaty sounds, little murmurs of praise and affection, and second with that particular brand of touch he knows omegas to be particularly susceptible to.

  
He lets his claws extend very slightly, only to small points. His fingertips throb a little with the restraint, but it's worth the safety: he trails his hand up Stiles' back very, very lightly, from the round swell of his ass to the nape of his neck, letting the tips of his claws drag and skip softly over the smooth skin.  
  
As Stiles sucks at his nipples, Derek reverses his course, skimming claws downward until he comes to Stiles' ass, where he works his fingers between his thighs and cups his balls, teasingly working them between his fingers. Everything vulnerable and soft about Stiles has an extreme effect on him; Derek finds himself panting and rock-hard again long before he expected he would be, muttering Stiles' name with muted praise.

 

As soon as he feels Derek's claws on him, Stiles is a mewling, moaning mess. He loves the edge of _danger_  they provide, even though he knows Derek would never hurt him. He spreads his thighs a bit further, hoping to encourage Derek to touch him where he needs it most. Since the Alpha insisted on _slow_ , however, Stiles is doing everything he can to rein himself in.  
  
When he can take it no longer, Stiles begins to rub his aching dick in the crease of Derek's hip. This is what he wanted, after all, and he intends to have it. He closes his eyes and allows himself to fantasise that they are mates and they're alone in their house just loving each other--not an Alpha and omega who happen to be fooling around, not in a hotel room in San Diego. Reality may be harsh, but no one can take away the image in Stiles' mind.  
  
Since he's on top, Stiles works his hands under Derek's body, cupping his hands over the back of the Alpha's shoulders to give himself more leverage. They're both hard by now, and it takes every fiber of Stiles' being to hold back his orgasm.  
  
"Talk to me," he pants out. "Tell me something about your childhood. Anything. If you don't stop me, I'm going to cum in like five seconds."

 

There's wisdom in using his claws with an omega; it's not something he would do outside of a courting situation. Along with the pinpricks of sensation and the excitement the presence of werewolf claws amps up, he's signalling to Stiles that he can _protect_ him.   
  
Not that he's aware of it, of course; that sort of base strategizing is buried deep in his subconscious. Nonetheless Derek feels a rush of something like adrenaline when a little of Stiles' drool collects in the indent of his collarbone, and suddenly the omega is begging him to _talk.  
  
_ Which isn't his strong suit, and neither is delay. He can't decide whether to make Stiles cum right away or meet his request to stave it off, so he splits the difference by cupping each mound of the boy's ass in one of his broad palms and rocking him against his body.  
  
"I missed you," he murmurs into his ear, voice thick and husky, "missed you while I was gone -- gone hiding Cora. I _thought_ about you," he begins rolling his hips up to meet Stiles', teeth working at the fleshy softness of his earlobe.

 

"I thought you . . . wanted to take this . . . slowwww." The last word is little more than the tremor of Stiles' voice. "I didn't . . . know you missed me."  
  
The idea that Derek missed him sends a thrill of pleasure shooting up Stiles' spine. The fantasy in his mind is gaining traction, and if it's this good tonight, he can only imagine what it will be like during his heat.  
  
He's getting closer, but not quite _there_ yet.   
  
"If you're trying to get me off, you're doing a good job," he pants against Derek's shoulder. He's trying to hold back the best he can, but even just the feeling of Derek's breath against his skin is doing him in.  
  
He keeps his hips rolling in time with Derek's, and it takes all he has not to cum.

 

"Yeah," Derek pants, pressing a kiss to Stiles' sweat-damp temple, "missed you bad."   
  
And he had, for what it was worth. Presently he could see the eroticism in that, though at the time he had seen only a mute sort of melancholy, a longing for something missed he had never really had, something he suspected then he would never have.   
  
Even now he doesn't know if he'll ever really have Stiles, but be can share this with him here and now.  
  
As the omega pants against his chest Derek brings a hand up, strokes his cheekbone with a thumb, and dips two fingers into his mouth -- into that _perfect_ mouth, the feature he'd been first smitten by, first obsessed with. He pumps his index and middle fingers in and out, teasing his tongue, leaving a thin trail of saliva stretching between fingertip and lip when he withdraws them. He adds his own contribution, a quick and precise spit, then relocates his fingers to the warm crease of Stiles' ass.  
  
Of course he'll get antsy, he thinks; they teach omegas to suspect the worst, and he doesn't blame them.  
  
"I'm not gonna fuck you," he mutters, though his dick is aching hard and smearing pre-cum across Stiles' belly as he ruts up against him, "I'm just gonna -- just like that." He begins to massage him, pads of his fingers working against the tight pink rim, tugging and pressing, spreading him and then rolling inward, but never penetrating.   
  
Derek isn't far, then, from cumming.

 

Stiles jumps in surprise at the not-at-all-unwelcome feeling of Derek's fingers against his hole. He has half a mind to tell the Alpha to push them in, but they feel so good, and he's so close to cumming, anyway, he settles for rocking forward against Derek's body and back against his fingers. It's almost like being in bed with two Alphas, but even better because it's just Derek.  
  
Lifting himself up a bit, Stiles realigns their cocks so that they're rubbing one another. There's a pool of precum in the hollow of Derek's belly, and Stiles works his cockhead into that. Another moan escapes his lips, and this time Stiles doesn't bother to conceal it because he knows Derek likes to hear him.  
  
Before he even realises what is happening, Stiles cums, a hard orgasm that curls his toes and makes him bite down on the smooth flesh of Derek's shoulder. He doesn't usually cum so hard unless he's playing with his ass, so no surprise there.  
  
"God, yes, Derek," he murmurs unintelligibly, rocking his hips until his body has nothing more to give.

 

When he rocks against Stiles post-orgasm the limpness of the omega's body adds more than it subtracts; with Stiles loose and yielding he feels like he's two days deep into a brutal heat, fucked out and still ready. Derek lets the fantasy overtake him as he steadies Stiles' hips and gives the last few thrusts it takes against his slick belly to come, second of the night, groaning his name.   
  
Both his hands slide up to settle on Stiles' back, massaging lightly. The feel of Stiles' skin is _incredible_ right now; Derek vaguely wonders if his own heat his beginning, so thrilled by the sensation of Stiles' flesh under his fingers is he.  
  
At length he feels himself begin to doze.  
  
"Stiles," he sighs, lazily pressing his mouth against the boy's temple.

 

 

The End

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still here? Play with me on Tumblr @moitmiller
> 
> I'm also looking for someone to write Derek. Please let me know if you're interested!

**Author's Note:**

> Come [play with Moit on Tumblr](http://moitness.tumblr.com)!


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